


Pull Yourself Up and Try Again

by billiethepoet



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You know why it can’t... why it couldn’t have been me?” Sherlock’s voice is quiet and he’s still facing the window when he speaks. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“What I’m trying to say is, would you like to go to dinner sometime while I’m in London?” The blush running up Martin’s cheeks only serves to make him look even younger, crashing over his freckles like a tidal wave. </i></p><p> </p><p>The days rack up and John gets back on his feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to scienceofobsession for her patience and cheer leading as I was wrapping this up.

_Day 8_

John’s tie is too tight. It’s probably not too tight at all but everything feels too tight these days. Like he’s being pressed and choked and squeezed. He shrugs into his freshly pressed jacket but doesn’t stop to check his appearance in the mirror. 

_Just get through today_ , John tells himself. 

_Day 11_

He makes it as far as the sofa, shoulders hunched and throat raw from sobbing. The sofa is far enough for one day.

John fades in and out of sleep throughout the day. Restless, fitful sleep that only soothes when his semi-conscious brain thinks it feels Sherlock’s hand smooth across his brow. 

_Day 19_

_From: DI Greg Lestrade_  
 _Pub? Could use a distraction._

_From: John Watson_  
 _No. Not yet._

_From: DI Greg Lestrade_  
 _You could use a distraction too._

_Day 26_

Mrs. Hudson bring him tea but the flat has never felt more cold or empty. John barely notices when she leaves. 

_Day 32_

_From: John Watson_  
 _Distraction?_

_From: DI Greg Lestrade_  
 _God I need one. Meet you there in 20?_

_Day 33_

It’s after midnight when John stumbles back to Baker Street. Sherlock’s leaning over the microscope that seems to have taken up permanent residence on the kitchen table. He sags against the doorframe and watches the light shine back through the ocular lens and illuminate the pale blue of Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock looks up. “Is all this sulking out of your system now? Did you manage to drink it away with Lestrade?” 

John snorts, but takes no offense. He crosses the room and sits heavily in the chair kitty corner to Sherlock. “You’re a good one to talk about sulking.” 

“I do not sulk.” 

“Oh no. You never sulk.” John laughs, relaxed and carefree. The joy at being able to tease Sherlock again, just to talk to him really, makes John’s heart swell. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and gazes back into the microscope lens. “The point is, your sulking was tedious.” His voice goes quiet. It’s the heavy, serious tone Sherlock uses when he actually cares. The inability to make eye contact is even more telling to John. “Are you all right?” 

John swallows thickly. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Sherlock’s gaze again rises from the microscope to watch as John gets to his feet and trudges toward his bedroom. John can almost believe the lies he’s told tonight. Maybe it will be easier when he’s sober. Or harder. Either way is fine, really.


	2. Chapter 1

_Day 127_

“Well...um... we’re going to be in London for a week on stand-by. That means we’re not flying, just getting paid to sit around unless our client decides he wants to fly then that would mean we’re no longer on stand-by but I don’t think that’s likely...” The young man pauses to take a deep breath, one John is sure he sorely needs. “What I’m trying to say is, would you like to go to dinner sometime while I’m in London?” The blush running up Martin’s cheeks only serves to make him look even younger, crashing over his freckles like a tidal wave. 

Martin’s young but he can’t be much younger than Sherlock. Maybe he’s even a bit older than Sherlock. John’s face spreads wide into one of his well-practiced, sultry grins. “Yeah, I’d love that.” 

He leaves the pub to see Martin hurrying back to the older man he was sitting with before John caught his eye. Martin’s friend raises a glass in salute as Martin takes his seat. 

_Day 130_

“Do you want to come in for a cuppa?” John keeps his voice low, inviting. He and Martin are standing on the pavement, just in front of Baker Street’s front steps. Looking up, John can see a shadowing figure and twitching curtains in the sitting room window. But his face aches and his sides hurt from laughing at Martin’s airline adventure stories and he really wants to spend rather a long time kissing the man so Sherlock Holmes can sod right off. 

“Ah... I shouldn’t. Not that I don’t want to but umm it’s late and I.... I would like to see you again though. While I’m here in London, anyway.” 

John glances up again while Martin winds down his ramble and the curtains are still, the outline of Sherlock retreated back into the sitting room. He smiles and lays a reassuring hand on Martin’s shoulder. “We’ll definitely be seeing each other again. You can’t get rid of me that easily after a great date.” The look of “Oh, God, have I screwed this up already?” falls from Martin’s face and John presses on. “But I am going to kiss you.” John slides his hand from Martin’s shoulder to cup the back of Martin’s neck. 

“Yes. Good. Okay. Good.” Martin murmurs all the way across the gap to John’s lips. 

When John finally skips up the stairs to 221b, the sitting room door is hanging open. He turns the corner to the second floor steps without stopping. 

“He’s dull.” Sherlock’s voice calls out.

“And you’re a twat!” John shouts back, happier than he’s been in a long time. 

_Day 132_

“But it turned out Douglas had been using the live animal crates to smuggle in silks from Quatar while Arthur thought we were genuinely transporting live animals. He’d been stuffing meat into the crates to feed them and ended up destroying all the fabric.” John is giggling into his water glass while Martin looks equal parts amused and irritated. “It serves him right for using GERTI for smuggling at all...”.

“When do you come back to London?” John bumps his knee against Martin’s under the table littered with the remains of their Thai feast. The restaurant John picked is quiet and they’re sitting side by side on a long bench. 

Martin nods shyly at the waiter who stops by to pick up the check he insisted he and John split. “We don’t come to London often but I checked the schedule and we’re flying in and out of Heathrow in around three weeks.”

John bumps Martin’s knee again, but this time he leaves the length of his calf pressed to Martin’s. “Will I see you?” 

Martin sighs heavily and leans against John’s shoulder. “Oh, yes.” 

_Day 137_

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_I am drowning in sick children. May need an airlift rescue._

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Will attach skyhook to GERTI and prepare for immediate departure._

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_I am looking forward to you coming back to London._

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Me too._

_Day 143_

The trill of John’s phone cuts through the silence of Baker Street. John wrestles the phone from his pocket as Sherlock glowers at him from his lazy stretch across the sofa. 

Sherlock scowls when John’s face softens at the name on the display. Before John can answer the call, Sherlock asks, “Where is the gallant pilot calling from this time?” 

John smiles, genuinely pleased, “Crete, I think.” 

“You do know that small planes are statistically more likely to crash with fatalities. And it’s almost always pilot error.” 

The phone trills again in John’s hand. He turns to Sherlock’s petulant pout and says, “Sod off” before saying hello to Martin. 

As Martin describes MJN’s day in Crete, Sherlock picks up his violin and stands by the windows to play. John closes the door to the kitchen, refusing to yield all public space to Sherlock’s moods, before he asks how badly sunburned Martin ended up. 

_Day 146_

John is digging through the sofa cushions when Sherlock swans into the flat. The smugness is practically radiating off him. 

“What did you do with my mobile?” John says, hands on hips and frown firmly in place. 

Sherlock sinks into his armchair. “What makes you think I did anything with it? Maybe you just misplaced it.” 

John rubs the spot of tension across the bridge of his nose. “Because you are positively vibrating with joy. Now, hand it over.” 

They stare at eachother for a few moments, Sherlock growing increasingly more angry and John growing more resolute. Finally Sherlock breaks his gaze away and points a slender hand toward the mantle. “It’s under the skull.” 

John retrieves it, turns the power back on, and finds four texts from Martin. He composes a quick response promising Martin he’ll call him when he lands back in Fitton before turning back to Sherlock. 

“Why are you so bothered by this? I date all the time.”

“You haven’t dated anyone in over five months.” 

John stalks to his armchair and sits opposite Sherlock. “I didn’t feel like it at the time. Now I do.” 

Sherlock sniffs at that. “I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like anyone.” John’s response is automatic. He waits a beat before adding, “And you didn’t meet him.” 

Sherlock cuts John a withering gaze. “Captain Martin Crieff, 35, of Fitton. Originally from Wokingham with devastatingly working class parents. Father deceased, mother ailing. Had a long, hard climb through his own ineptitude to being a pilot and has landed as the only captain of a shabby-”

“Stop!” John’s voice is hard and his hands are clenched against the armrest. “You don’t have to like him. I do. You don’t have veto power over my dates.” 

“Maybe I should. It would save you from wasting yourself.” Sherlock bites back.

John’s voice drops to a level of cruelty he rarely uses. “You gave up that right, didn’t you?” 

Sherlock looks away, gaze pinned to the smiley face shot into the wall. 

They sit for a few moments, John willing himself not to apologize, to let that truth sit between them. Sherlock rises and buttons his jacket. His voice is quieter than it had been when he was tearing into Martin’s life. It’s as close as Sherlock Holmes comes to an apology. “I’ll be at Bart’s. Probably won’t be home tonight.” 

John stays in his armchair, jaw clenched, until it’s time to call Martin. 

_Day 147_

The pub is noisier than it had been the night John met Martin. He and Lestrade have to lean close across the table to be heard. They’ve been meeting like this, once every other week or so, for the past few months. It’s friendly and relaxed. They don’t talk about work or Sherlock. 

“Tell me who you’re shagging now, John Watson. I see it all over you face.” Greg grins at him and takes a long sip of his pint. 

“Not shagging. Not yet anyway. But seeing, dating, yeah.” John feels a bit shy about it now. Arguing it over with Sherlock bloody Holmes is one thing, but talking about it with someone else is different. 

Greg waits for a particularly loud cheer from the footie fans to die down. “Give me the details, Watson. I live vicariously through you now.” 

“Christ, that’s a sorry way to live.” John laughs a bit and scrubs a hand across his face. “You don’t have to you know. There are loads of women who-”

Greg waves him off. “None of that. We’re talking about you. I’m on a case and you will not distract me.” 

John spins his sweating pint around on the table, trailing his fingers through the condensation. “His name is Martin.” Greg’s eyebrows shoot up in mock shock. John laughs and flicks the beads of water at him. “Shut it, you.” Greg keeps the shocked expression with his mouth tipped up at the corners anyway. “He’s a pilot, lives in Fitton so we haven’t seen each other much, but yeah. I like him. Quite a lot, actually.” 

Greg’s smile turns less mocking and more genuine. “Good. You deserve it. You look happier than I’ve seen you in awhile.” 

John takes a sip of drink, mostly to keep himself from breaking into a love-sick grin. “You know, I think I am.” 

Much later that night, John’s feet scrap sloppily against the steps up to 221b. The pints have made him slow and unsteady. He stands in the doorway to the sitting room. Sherlock’s back is to him, outlined in the window, with bow in hand and violin tucked against his chin but there’s no music playing. John watches him for a moment before turning to continue the climb to his room. 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice stops him before he can completely leave the doorway. “I’m glad you like him.” 

John doesn’t acknowledge the concession. He walks slowly to his room and collapses on the bed still in his clothes. 

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Told a mate about you at the pub tonight. He said I should aim for the mile high club._

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_That’s actually a lot harder than most people think._

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Are you speaking from personal experience, Captain?_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_No! Just the experience of flying aeroplanes._

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Goodnight Martin. Can’t wait to see you._

John falls asleep with his mobile clutched against his chest and only silence coming from the rest of the flat. 

_Day 151_

John’s cleaning the flat. Binning some of the more odious things Sherlock has left in the fridge for far too long and straightening the mess of random objects on the mantle. John’s been trying to tidy around them but enough’s enough. Martin and MJN land at Heathrow at half four this afternoon; Martin will be at 221b by seven for dinner. John’s running through the mental list of ingredients he need to pick up at the shop before he can set in on making the curry he has planned, when Sherlock’s form is looming over him. 

“What are you doing? I need those.” He bends over John in an attempt to pull a set of liquified...somethings from the bin bag. 

John swats his hand away and blocks with a shoulder. “No, you don’t. They’ve been in there for months.” 

Sherlock steps back and crosses his arms. “It still doesn’t explain what you’re doing.”

“Martin’s in town for the night.” Sherlock makes a disgruntled sound and John takes a deep breath. “And I’m making him dinner. Here. In a few hours.” 

“This is disgustingly domestic,” Sherlock sneers. 

John snaps back, “Maybe I’m ready for some domesticity.” 

There’s a moment of quietness between them before Sherlock speaks again. “What happened to you John?” 

John pulls something that could be either rotten vegetables or rotten (human) flesh in a sealed container and thrusts it into the bin. “You did. You happened to me, Sherlock Holmes.” 

He hears Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath behind him, then he feels rather than sees Sherlock leave the flat. 

Martin and John’s dinner goes uninterrupted by Sherlock. It’s full of half-decent curry, small smiles, and casual touches. They talk easily, the conversation ebbing effortlessly between topics, and laugh often. 

John washes the plates while Martin leans against the counter and tells him about MJN’s upcoming trip to South America. They are hopscotching across the continent for over a week before heading back to Fitton. John’s sleeves are rolled up and the suds are warm across his wrists. He watches Martin watching the shift of muscles across his forearms. 

He pulls the stopper from the sink and takes a step back. “Where does Carolyn have you holed up this time?” 

Martin pulls a face. “Some terrible place close to Heathrow. I drew the short straw and have to share a room with Arthur.” 

“Or you could stay here.” John offers mildly. 

Martin stares at him with eyes the size of tea saucers. John stretches out a hand, stopping just before his finger graze Martin’s wrist. “No pressure and nothing you don’t want. We can take it slow but I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you over the last few weeks and I want to spend as much time with you as I can.”

Martin nervously licks across his bottom lip, then reaches out and brushes his fingertips along John’s outstretched knuckles. “What if I don’t want to take it slow?” His voice has pitched lower and he keeps his eyes locked on where his fingers rub across John’s hand. 

John turns his hand so that his palm is facing Martin’s. He scratches his nails along the underside of Martin’s fingers before twisting his wrist again, entwining their fingers. Martin looks up when John squeezes his hand. 

“I think we can handle that, Captain Crieff.” 

_Day 152_

It’s the small hours of the morning when John finally tucks Martin against his shoulder and presses a kiss to his sweaty brow. 

“I don’t want to be one of those men who have frankly fantastic sex and then immediately fall asleep but I need to get at least five hours in before I fly tomorrow.” 

John absently trails his fingernails across Martin’s shoulder. “What time do you depart?” 

“Half eleven.” Martin presses his lips against John’s collar bone. His voice is slurring and John can already feel his breath evening out. “But I have to be at the airport early.” 

John stretches toward the nightstand, flicking off the light without unsettling Martin. “Go to sleep. I’ll have you up in plenty of time in the morning and I’ll even cook you breakfast.” 

“What a gentleman.” Martin stretches out over a yawn. 

John stays awake, staring into the darkness of his room. He’s content with the warm weight of Martin’s sleeping form under his arm. He’s sated and more relaxed than he can remember feeling in months. 

The muffled strains of the violin rise through the floorboards, slinking around John and Martin tucked in their bed. Sherlock is playing something sad and sweet. It brings a bittersweet ache to John’s heart and he tightens his arm around Martin’s shoulders. 

_Day 158_   
_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_How’s Uruguay?_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Dreadful. How’s London?_

_Boring. When do I get to see you again?_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_I’m not sure. Soon, I hope. And didn’t anyone ever tell you only boring people are bored?_

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Don’t get smart with me. I’m a captain too, you know._

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Yes sir._

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Don’t ever tell Douglas I called you that._

_Day 170_

Martin has a long layover at Heathrow. Not all night long, unfortunately. But long enough for John to take the tube to the airport and meet him for lunch at an overpriced cafe just outside the security checkpoint. 

He’s running late and John already has a table by the time Martin scurries into the restaurant. His face is red and splotchy, the polyester of his jacket holding in the heat and making him sweat. 

“I’m sorry! I thought we would be in this terminal, because they always put the smaller planes here but we had a gate change at the last minute and ended up parking on the other side of the airport. I thought I could-”

John waves a hand, the smile on his face large and genuine. “It’s fine. At least you bother to show up at all. We’ve got all afternoon.” 

Martin snorts as he pulls out a chair. “Who would stand you up?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Stood up, left behind, forgotten. It’s all happened before.” John’s smile falters but Martin’s too busy looking at a menu to notice. 

When Martin does look up, his voice is quiet. “Whoever did that is an idiot.” 

John laughs out loud, cutting through the noise of busy travelers in the terminal. “He’d never admit it but yeah. Yeah, he was, a bit.” 

The harried waiter interrupts to take their orders. When he goes, John turns the conversation to brighter topics. They loiter at the table long after their lunch plates have been cleared away until the glares from the waiter become too obvious. 

“I should get back.” Martin frowns and scrubs a hand across his tired looking face. 

“I’ll walk you as far as I can.” 

John lets the back of his knuckles brush against Martin’s hand with every few strides they take toward the security checkpoint. Martin keeps his eyes straight ahead, but he doesn’t pull away either. 

They slow as they approach the security line and stop all together several yards away. John lets his hand brush across Martin’s one last time as he angles to face the pilot. 

“John. I...ummm...ah...I’d like you to come visit me in Fitton. For a weekend. If you’d like. If you’re free.” Martin stumbles over his words and a flush spreads across his cheeks but he doesn’t look away from John. 

His feet stay planted but John shifts slightly forward. “I would like that. When?” 

Now Martin does look away. He stares firmly at his feet as if the slight scuffs on his shoes have suddenly become both terribly interesting and terribly offensive. “MJN is booked for the next few weekends and it’s the holidays, and I’m not asking you to spend Christmas with me. God no. Not yet. But there’s a break after that, assuming nothing else comes up and that might work except... Well, I mean to say that I have a second job. I sometimes, most times really, do some work as a man with a van between flights for extra money.” Martin heaves a deep breath and darts an appraising look to John’s face before reexamining his shoes. “Not just for extra money. For my only money. I’m not paid to fly. MJN can’t afford two pilots and I wanted to be a captain so badly...” Martin risks another quick glance at John and finds him grinning. “What? Are you laughing at me?”

“No, no, no. I’m not laughing at you. Really, I’m not. I just... It’s just funny because I used to play at being a detective or a police officer or something. I don’t even know what it was anymore.” John’s grin dims and the wrinkles around his eyes lessen. “But I didn’t get paid and I loved every minute of it. I did it because I liked it. I felt better about myself, felt like I was helping.” 

“You don’t do it anymore?” 

John pulls a hand across his face and takes a step away from Martin. “No, not anymore.” John’s jaw is tight when his hand settles back to his side. 

“I’m sorry.” Martin lays a hand on John’s shoulder and then quickly, awkwardly pulls it away. 

“Nothing for you to be sorry about. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Who’s fault was it then?” 

“Maybe I’ll tell you when I come to Fitton.” John pulls the smile back to his face but it is significantly diminished. “I’m glad you’re a pilot, and I’m glad you’re a man with a van, and I’m glad you told me.” 

Martin is relieved that the tension seems to have passed. “How could anyone be glad I’m a man with a van? I’m not even glad I’m a man with a van!” 

“You never know. I may need to move someday.” John’s voice is back to the light and teasing tone Martin first heard in the pub weeks ago. 

Martin rolls his eyes but there’s no bite to it. “I need to get back to the plane. I wish I didn’t have to go.” 

“I wish I could kiss you.” John quips back.

Martin pulls a sharp breath in through his nose, his eyes wide, before he realizes that John isn’t going to plant one on his lips in the middle of Heathrow’s arrivals. “In Fitton, then?”

John’s eyes glitter. “In Fitton.”

_Day 175_

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Happy Christmas Martin._

_Text deleted unsent._

_Day 181_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Happy New Year._

_Text deleted unsent._

_Day 194_

John could feel Sherlock’s ice cold glare boring into his back. He did not turn around. He did not acknowledge Sherlock. He resolutely tucked a folded vest and his shaving kit into the duffle bag laid open upon his bed. 

The silence stretches on until John is almost out of things to keep him occupied. Sherlock breaks first. “Where are you going?”

“To Martin’s. Just for the weekend.”

Sherlock shifts in the doorway, not stepping through but hovering in the space between what is exclusively _John’s _and what is public space. Sherlock hasn’t come up here in months. John can hear the slide of Sherlock’s dressing gown as he fidgets. Finally, John turns around, hands clenched at his sides.__

__Sherlock’s eyes glow in the half light of the hall. “I’m losing you, aren’t I John?”_ _

__“Christ, Sherlock. You’re not losing me. I’m just going out of town for the weekend.” John jerks the zipper on the duffle, the teeth grinding and snagging together as the bag closes. He hauls the bag over one shoulder, the straps cutting off circulation in his fingers and turning them white in the crease of his knuckles. He crosses the room with confident strides, not allowing Sherlock to see him falter._ _

__John turns to slide sideways through the door. Careful to keep distance between his body and Sherlock’s. Even Sherlock has the good sense to flatten his shoulders against the doorframe as John moves past._ _

__John stops at the edge of the stairs, shifting the duffle on his shoulder. He turns just enough to see Sherlock’s silhouette over his shoulder. “Besides, you can’t lose me. You already left. Ages ago, you left and I lost you.”_ _

__John pounds down the stairs, barely slowing to snag his coat before fleeing Baker Street. He doesn’t notice the bite of the cold or the ache in his leg until he’s nearly to the Marylebone station._ _


	3. Chapter 2

_Day 195_

Martin makes a point to wake up before John on Saturday morning. He still only barely makes it out of the shower before John is shuffling into the bathroom. John presses a sleepy kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth before pushing him out of the loo, hands warm and large against Martin’s waist through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. 

Martin stands on the other side of the door struck dumb by John’s casual touches and easy acceptance of the students sleeping off their late night partying in the nearby rooms. Once the shower starts up again, Martin ducks into the kitchen to put together breakfast. It’s just beans on toast and a few fried eggs, but he wants to cook it and present it to John like it’s a gourmet meal. Because John deserves that. 

When John reemerges, Martin’s gathered the eggs, beans and toast, and a pot of tea up into his attic and spread them across a battered end table pulled in front of the sofa. 

His hair is still damp against his collar when he snatches a slice of toast, careful not to tip the beans onto the floor, and takes a bite. “Are you going to show me the best Fitton has to offer?” John manages to clear his mouth before asking. 

Martin’s eyebrows come together to create an achingly familiar looking pucker at the top of his nose. “Other than the airfield and the library, I don’t really go anywhere.”

“Maybe I’ve already seen the best Fitton has to offer anyway.” John’s grin is lecherous and the waggle of his eyebrows only serves to drive the innuendo home. 

John laughs at the way Martin manages to roll his eyes and blush at the same time. “Someday you’ll stop being able to make me blush you know.” 

“I hope not.” 

“You abuse the privilege” 

John bends and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth, still smirking. They eat breakfast in silence, John finishing his beans and toast and Martin pushing his eggs around his plate. 

When John sets his empty mug back on the scarred tabletop, Martin manages to clear his throat nervously. “Actually, I did want to, ah, suggest something we could do today.” John raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond, forcing Martin to press on. “My boss, Carolyn, asked to have us over to dinner. Arthur will be there because, well, he lives there. And I think she’s invited Douglas as well. I just think it would be really nice if we could go.” The last bit comes out in a great gush of air and Martin winds himself down. 

“Are you asking me to meet the family, Captain Crieff?” 

Martin smiles at John’s casual tone, the light and teasing lit to John’s voice giving him courage. “I believe I am, Captain Watson.” 

“Good. Dinner with MJN would be good. Really good.” 

Martin takes this as a sign to press his good luck. “Are you seeing anyone else, John?” He tries to keep his voice as level, as professional sounding as possible. 

John’s head does a strange sort of front and back bob when the question catches him off guard. “No. Why? Are you?” 

“No. Not even close.” Martin gives a watery laugh. “I wouldn’t want to be.”

Reaching across the table to take his hand, John replies, “And I wouldn’t want to be either.” His deep blue eyes are clear and earnest and Martin feels a bubble of feeling rising up in his chest. 

“So, I can introduce you as my boyfriend when we go to Carolyn’s?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” 

_Day 196_

John drives the rickety van back from Carolyn’s just after midnight. Martin’s a bit too tipsy to drive, having gotten into the tequila with Arthur. Martin’s hand rests warmly on John’s thigh, fingers rubbing the inseam of his jeans, as he drives. 

“Did I pass the ‘meet the family’ test then?” 

Martin’s head lolls against the seat back as he shifts to look at John’s profile. “With flying colors.” He watches John’s face in the windows of yellow light as they pass under Fitton’s haphazardly placed streetlights. “When do I get to meet your family?” 

John stiffens a bit, but Martin’s too loose and warm to notice. “I don’t really have much of a family. A sister that I barely speak too and a handful of mates, but no one... no one that I’m that close to.” When Martin doesn’t respond, John steals a look in his direction. He looks crestfallen. “Next time you’re in London, we’ll arrange a pub night with the few mates I actually care about seeing, okay? And I’ll introduce you to my landlady.” Martin nods, cheek sticking to the vinyl of the van seat, and does not seem at all put off by the hodgepodge of individuals John Watson might consider family. They’re no stranger than his own. 

They finish the drive in silence. John parks the van in the street in front of Martin’s shared house but doesn’t open the door. “Do you remember I said that I used to play at solving crimes?” Martin doesn’t respond but his eyes are open and he’s watching John intently. “The man I worked with, he was family. Maybe more than family but.. but not anymore.” John swallows past an unexpected lump in his throat. “I have this blog about the things we did. It was pretty popular, for awhile anyway, before things went pear-shaped. Don’t go looking for it, okay? I don’t want you to read it yet.” 

“Okay.” Martin’s voice is almost too quiet to be heard, even in the empty space of the van. 

John leans across the gear shift and catches the back of Martin’s neck in the palm of his hand. He pulls Martin close for a hard kiss. “Someday you can read it, but not yet, okay?” 

“Okay, okay.” Martin chants as he kisses John’s lips again. 

_Day 197_

There’s a sleek black car waiting for John outside the surgery. He tries ignoring it, then flipping it the bird as it crawls down the street after him. It’s only when it’s Mycroft himself and not another faceless assistant that rolls down the window that John stops on the sidewalk. 

“Must we, John? This running away is unnecessary.” 

“So is a personal kidnapping. You could just call.” 

“This isn’t a kidnapping. Just a ride home.” 

“Ta, but I know my own way home.” John turns away to resume his brisk pace down the pavement but Mycroft’s voice stops him.

“John, please.”

John rolls his eyes to the sky and sends a quick prayer for patience to whatever Gods might still be listening to him before sliding onto the buttery leather of the backseat. He keeps a fair distance between himself and Mycroft Holmes as he settles his duffle bag between his feet. 

The car pulls away from the curb and slides effortlessly into rush hour traffic. “What do you want this time? It’s been awhile since you’ve accosted me.”

Mycroft appraises him with the same calculating gaze he always uses, but this time it is subtly softer around the edges. “I noticed you’d recently left town. Bit of a holiday perhaps?”

“Yeah, a bit.” John keeps the sneer he wants to direct at Mycroft down to just a smirk. “I went north to visit my boyfriend for the weekend.” 

“Ah, yes. Your young man. A pilot, though not a very acclaimed one.” Mycroft arches one brow at him. “Boyfriend? Really John. Are we still in secondary school?”

“My young man?” John snaps back. “Stop checking up on me, Mycroft. You’re as bad as Sherlock, only with the resources of the Crown behind you.” 

Silence sits between them on the fine upholstery as the car turns onto Baker Street. Mycroft taps the driver’s seatback and he wordlessly drives past 221, turning to make another circuit of the block. John rolls his eyes at that and crosses his arm in front of his chest. 

“I think you should reconsider your dalliance with Captain Crieff.” Mycroft’s voice is low, but laced with worry as opposed to the threat John was expecting. It doesn’t keep his ire from rising though. 

“And I think you should mind your own bloody business. I have no intention of throwing Martin over because you think I should.” John wipes suddenly sweaty palms across the tops of his thighs. “Are you keeping tabs on me, warning me away, because he can’t? Because he-” John cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath. When he turns back to Mycroft, his eyes are much more dangerous. “Let me out. Now.” 

Another rap against the driver’s seat and the car pulls immediately to the curb about half a block from 221. John is out and down the sidewalk before Mycroft can land a parting blow. 

Sherlock’s not in the flat when he throws open the sitting room door. 

_Day 214_

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _Douglas was right._

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _Don’t bother telling him. I’m sure he knows. What was he right about this time?_

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _Helsinki really is like a sink in hell._

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _No point in asking how Finland is then?_

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _Arthur managed to forget to stock the catering for the flight to Helsinki and our hotel is under renovation and barely has a roof. I have never been so cold in my life._

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _February is no time to be roofless in Finland. But you come home today?_

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _Yes. And back out again tomorrow. Carolyn has us booked solid for the next month. Next stop, taking German businessmen to the Cayman Islands._

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _At least you’ll be warm while I’m not seeing you._

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _Yes, but not warm enough._

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _I knew I’d get you to join in on the innuendo eventually._

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _I have to stay warm somehow._

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _God, I miss you._

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _I miss you too._

_Day 239_

Martin is slightly out of breath when he answers the phone. 

“Back on domestic soil?” John settles onto the sofa, tossing Sherlock’s dressing gown to the far corner. He stretches his legs across the cushions to relieve the ache of a long day standing at the surgery.

There’s some muffled noises as Martin juggles the phone, but no distinct answer. 

“Did I get you at a bad time?” 

“No! No, not at all.” Martin comes back to the receiver full force. “I’m just trying to get the van open and my bag in and...” Martin trails off and there’s the bang of the van door in the background. 

John chuckles and pushes his back more firmly into the sofa. “You could have rung me back once you were settled, you know.” 

“I know.” Martin’s gone quiet now that he’s settled in the van. “But it feels like ages since I spoke to you.”

“It’s only been a few days.”

“Still feels like ages.” Martin breathes out heavily and John can hear the van crank noisily. “I like talking to you.”

As his smile spreads so does a sensation of warmth across John’s breastbone. It’s becoming an all too familiar feeling when talking to Martin. “I like talking to you too.”

John talks Martin through the drive home, the ascent to his flat, and through running his hand under cold water after he burns himself in an attempt to make pot noodles for dinner. 221b grows dark around him as they talk and he eventually twists his feet in the cool satin of Sherlock’s dressing gown as the conversation draws to a close. 

_Day 253_

Now that Sherlock never texts, John’s taken to turning off his phone during his shifts without guilt or fear of a madman showing up at his work. When he turns it back on this time, he has three missed calls from Martin but only one voicemail. 

_John? Hi John. My mother’s in hospital in Wokingham and I have to... I have to get to her. Can you call me, John? Please._

John stops in the street and fumbles with the speed dial. The call rings out but Martin doesn’t pick up. 

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _I’m out of work now. Call me whenever you can._

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _I’m at the hospital. She’s fine but will need some looking after while she recovers._

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _Don’t drive back to Fitton tonight. Come stay with me. Let me look after you for a bit._

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _Thank you._

John redirects himself toward Tesco to pick up something to make for dinner once Martin gets in. 

When he returns to 221b, twilight has set in and Sherlock is standing against the windows, watching the street. The lines of his shoulders are tense in the form fitting black suit jacket. He cocks his head to the side as John shuffles into the kitchen with his grocery sacks. 

“Cooking for two?” Sherlock sneers.

“Yes, and you’re not one of them.” Their first conversation in days shows no signs of being pleasant. 

“I don’t want him in the flat.”

John slams a brand new tea tin against the worktop, denting it’s bottom edge. “I don’t give a fuck what you want. Martin is my boyfriend, I care about him, his mother’s ill, and he’s coming here instead of driving all the way back to Fitton tonight. End of story.” 

Sherlock turns away from the windows and takes a few steps toward the kitchen doorway, before stopping aimlessly in the middle of the living room. “When did we go so wrong, John?” 

He presses the heels of hands against his eyes before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t know where it went wrong.” 

“We were friends.” It’s not the matter of fact statement John has come to expect from Sherlock. It’s an admission of sadness, of loss.

“Yeah, we were. You were my best friend.” 

There’s such a stretch of silence between them that John assumes the conversation is over. He turns his back on Sherlock and finishes emptying the shopping bags. When he’s sliding the last of the fresh greens into the remarkably clean refrigerator, Sherlock speaks again. 

“Can we fix this then?”

John rests his head against the refrigerator door, sadness and guilt washing over him. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.” Then there’s a burst of clarity, of red hot anger in John. He spins around and crossing into the living room. “You did this Sherlock. This was your choice. Not mine. You made this choice for us, just like you always did, and now you’re stuck with it.”

Sherlock stares at him while the blood pounds in John’s ears, then pushes past him to flee to his bedroom. The door slams and John sinks into his chair with his head in his hands. 

_Day 256_

John’s washing his hands at the bathroom sink when Martin enters. 

“I’m exhausted.” Martin calls as he collapses on the sofa, limbs landing where they will. 

“How’s your mum?” John calls down the hall. 

“Exhausting.” Martin’s muffles his voice by burying his face against the arm of the sofa. He stays with cheeks smooshed against the fabric until he feels John’s fingers curl through his hair. He rolls his face to the side to smile up at him. “Hello.”

“Hello, you.” The warmth from his voice travels straight down his arm and hand as John’s nails scrape against Martin’s scalp. “You in for the night?”

“If that’s alright?” Martin’s natural nervousness shows through and John pushes his smile brighter to reassure him. 

“Of course it’s alright. I told you. You’re welcome to stay anytime. I want you to.” 

“I know. It’s just that I have to go back to Mum’s early tomorrow, then back to Fitton for a van job, then up early for a flight with MJN the next morning. Caitlin has been helpful but Simon hasn’t shown his ridiculous face yet.” Martin rolls onto his back, dislodging John’s hand from his hair, and roughly scrubs a hand across his face. “It’s only been a few days and I’m stretched thin. I’m a terrible son,” Martin moans.

John bends down so his face is level with Martin’s. “No you’re not. You’ve just got a lot on your plate. Simon’s the terrible one here.” John steals a quick kiss before standing. “I’m afraid I’m a bit terrible too. I got called into the surgery, just to cover a short shift. I’ll only be gone a few hours.”

Martin begins to rise from the sofa. “Oh, oh! I can just go-”

“You can just go straight to my room to take a nap.” John pushes him toward the sitting room door and then onto the first step. “Rest and I’ll be home in time for dinner. There are towels in the cabinet in the bathroom if you want a shower.” 

Martin turns on the first step to John’s room and wraps his arms around John’s shoulders. Leaning forward, Martin rests his forehead against John’s. With the aid of the step, Martin’s a few inches taller than John. “You’re too lovely for me.” 

“I’ve been told I’m a terrible boyfriend,” John scoffs. Martin raises an eyebrow at that. “Not in so many words. And it was a different situation.” John’s attempt at a casual shrug fails. 

“Sherlock?” Martin asks quietly. John’s mentioned him before, only in vague generalities and half-told stories. 

“Yeah.” John rubs his hands over Martin’s outstretched arms, then down his sides to land on Martin’s hips. “But not really the way you’re thinking.” 

The stand in silence for a moment before Martin speaks again. “I”m sorry I haven’t taken you to meet my Mum.” 

“I’m sorry I haven’t told you about Sherlock, or introduced you to Harry, or to Mrs. Hudson, or my mates...” John chuckles a bit. “I told you I was a terrible boyfriend.”

“You’re not. You’re really not. I don’t mind that you haven’t told anyone about me yet.”

“Well, I mind. And I did tell some of them. Not all of them yet, but some. When this thing with your mother clears up, we’ll do that pub night, okay?”

“Okay.” Martin presses a kiss to John’s forehead. “You should get to work before they find another handsome army doctor to replace you, Captain.” 

John watches until Martin closes the bedroom door on the floor above before heading down the stairs. He meets Sherlock just as the other man is coming in the door. 

“Martin’s in my room. You’re not to disturb him. He needs to rest.”

Sherlock scowls. “I didn’t want him in the flat at all and now I have to modify my behavior to suit his afternoon kip? You were about to leave him here alone!”

“So? You afraid he might steal one of your experiments?” 

“I don’t know what a failing pilot might steal.” 

John steps forward, crowding Sherlock against the banister. “Could you not be a complete arse for one day? Just one day?” 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock looks down but not properly chastised. 

John snorts. “You must be an imposter. Sherlock Holmes never apologizes.” 

Sherlock’s eyes snap back up to meet John’s, lightening quick and deadly serious. “I’m apologizing now.” 

“Just... just behave for a few hours and I’ll bring us all some takeaway for dinner, yeah?”

“I won’t be here. Just stopping by. Could be days before I return.” 

An ache settles in John’s chest. “Suit yourself. I’ll be home by six.” 

When John returns with curry from the shop on the corner, he only brings enough for two but Sherlock’s not there anyway.


	4. Chapter 3

_Day 259_

“You should have seen his face, John! It was amazing!” Martin’s still laughing as he retells the crew’s prank on Simon. He’s standing outside the crew entrance of Stansted airport with the phone pressed tightly to his ear. There’s a group of grounds-workers puffing on cheap cigarettes nearby and the wind freezes Martin’s fingertips.

John is chuckling along with him. The deepness of his voice through the phone sends shivers down Martin’s spine. “Convenient that you work with two devious masterminds.” 

“We weren’t too cruel to him. Even Douglas said so.”

“You trust Douglas’s opinion on that, do you?” John’s tone is light; he’s not really admonishing Martin but Martin bristles a bit anyway. 

“Simon deserved it,” he snaps back. 

John grows quiet for a moment. “I’m sure he did. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have teased him. Just don’t be cruel.” 

“We weren’t cruel! He’s always inappropriate and he pushes right over me no matter what we’re talking about. He’s disrespectful and...” Martin’s rant dies off into the charged silence between them. 

There’s a deep sigh from across the line. “I’m just.. tired. Too tired to be around people who are cruel just because they can be.” 

Martin stays silent. He wants to argue, to defend himself again, but John sounds exhausted. Eventually, he clears his throat. “I have to go. I need to do the walk around before we board the passengers.” 

“Okay. Do you know when we can talk again?” John sounds very calm, almost detached from Martin’s shirty behavior. 

“I’m not sure. We’ll get into Norway late tonight, then on to Denmark early tomorrow morning.” He’s being deliberately vague, feeling equal parts defensive and apologetic but unwilling to give in to either. 

“Call me if you get the chance,” John says shortly before ringing off. 

Martin stands in the cold wind, the grounds-workers smoke clinging to his uniform, feeling sick to his stomach with the phone a dead weight in his hand. 

_Day 261_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_I’m sorry for getting short with you._

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Sorry, I just can’t watch a man tear someone else down without good reason anymore. Seen too much of it I guess._

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Yes well you don’t know my brother._

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Can we talk about it when I can see you? If we’re going to row, let’s at least be able to have makeup sex as well._

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_We fly back to Stansted tomorrow afternoon. I have to ride back to Fitton with Carolyn, but maybe we could grab dinner before I go?_

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Dinner’s great. I missed you even if I was annoyed with you._

_Day 285_

“Where are you boys off to?” Mrs. Hudson appears from her kitchen, wiping her hands on a vaguely lavender colored apron, while John and Martin are pulling on their coats. 

“Just off to the pub, Mrs. H.” Martin has grown rather comfortable with Mrs. Hudson in the last few weeks, going from stuttering and feeling like a naughty teenager sneaking out of John’s flat in the mornings to sharing tea and toast instead. 

She reaches up and cups Martin’s cheeks between her hands. “Good. He should take you out and show you off more.” Regardless of their growing friendship, he does turn pink at that. 

“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Hudson.” John pulls her attention away from Martin. “We’re just meeting Lestrade tonight, but I definitely should show him off more.” Before Martin can grow any redder, John grabs his hand and plants a kiss on Mrs. Hudson’s cheek. “Don’t wait up.” He winks and she swats at his back as he pulls Martin through the front door. 

John drops Martin’s hand as the door shuts behind them. John’s not one for large displays of public affection but he peppers their days together with casual touches and kind words. It’s better than Martin had hoped for, really. His hand barely has time to register the chill of the April evening before John is pressing a hand to the small of his back to steer him to the right and down Baker Street. 

“This isn’t going to be one of those loud, sport pubs is it?” Martin’s eyebrows come together as he pulls a face. “I hate sports.” 

John laughs and bumps his shoulder against Martin’s. “No, just a quiet place where old dogs go to drink.” 

“You’re not old.”

“I feel older everyday. And Greg’s even older than I am.” John rubs a hand across the back of his neck, massaging away imaginary kinks. “Wait til you see his hair.” 

“Greying or bald?” Martin touches the back of his own head where the hair is thinning more than he’d like. 

“Grey. Lots and lots of grey.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re old though. Just that you look distinguished.” 

John shoots a sideways look to Martin. “Does that mean I shouldn’t worry about all the grey on my own head?” 

“Only if you don’t mind me going bald.” Martin grumbles through his frown, fingers still combing through the thinning curls on his crown. 

John stops and pulls his hand away. “You’re not going bald. And if you were I’d have to kick you out on your arse because I’d miss the curls too much.” John is grinning broadly as he says it but Martin still feels the pull of fear against his ribcage. But only for a moment. Then he rolls his eyes and keeps walking. He can hear John chuckle behind him before catching up and bumping their shoulders together again. 

The pub is quiet when they arrive. Just a few neighborhood chaps on bar stools and a few groups tucked into booths. There’s a football match on the telly but the volume is reasonable and no one is cheering out loud so Martin can’t complain. Lestrade waves from a corner table where he’s tucked himself against the wall. 

“He is distinguished looking.” Martin murmurs as John nods to Lestrade. 

“Shut it you. I won’t have you drooling over my mate.” John presses his hand against Martin’s back again to urge him toward the table. Martin smiles, equal parts pleased that he can get under John’s skin after the crack about his hair and that John’s hand feels so warm through his coat. 

“You must be Martin.” Lestrade stands and shakes his hand. 

“Yes, Martin-Greg. Greg-Martin.” John tosses his jacket over the chair next to Lestrade, leaving Martin to sit facing the man. “What do you want to drink?” 

Lestrade raises his dwindling pint up to eye level. “Another. Ta.”

“I’ll just have a pint, I guess.” Martin stutters out, silently willing John not to go to the bar and leave him and Lestrade alone at the table. But off he goes. Martin looks after him until Lestrade leans across the table to draw his attention.

“John’s told me a lot about you.” 

“He has?” Martin’s voice squeaks a bit and he wishes he already had a pint in front of him to keep his hands busy. Instead he knots them in his lap. Police can smell fear and he’s sure Lestrade knows how nervous he is. 

Lestrade leans back and cracks a smile. “Well, not a lot but enough. Far less than he’s told me about some of his girlfriends, which is probably a very good sign.” 

“Is it?” The sweat is sticking to Martin’s palms.

“He’s never managed to keep them around very long and you’ve been here for, what, six months?” 

“Not yet. In a few weeks it will be six months.”

Lestrade knocks back the end of his pint and tips his chair back on two legs. “Then it’s a very good sign.” 

Before Martin can respond, John is back with three pints. Lestrade tells some amusing stories from Scotland Yard, which leave Martin seriously questioning police adherence to proper procedure and John nearly doubled over with laughter. Martin relates a few stories about Arthur and Douglas, which may actually make Greg afraid of flying after all. As the conversation, and beer, flows between them, John sits back and watches with a contented smile on his face. 

The walk home is a bit slower than the walk to the pub was. Martin is talking about landing in a crosswind, waving his arms wildly, until John pushes him across the bed and crawls over top of him. 

“I’m glad you came tonight.” John’s own speech is a bit slurred and his arms feel wobbly as he holds himself over Martin. 

“Me too.” Martin’s eyes are glassy but his grin is positively wicked. “Greg’s quite handsome.” 

John shuts him up with a kiss.

_Day 286_

“Is this why you never go out on cases with me anymore? More time to lay about?” 

John pulls his dry, sticky eyelids open to see Sherlock leaning in his open doorway. His all black shirt and suit are neatly pressed and John can already feel the pounding of a headache behind his forehead. Martin is sprawled on his stomach, one hand dangling over the side of the bed, next to him. His freckled shoulders are peeking above the covers and he’s snoring softly. 

“Shut up. You’ll wake him.” John sits up and begins to slide from the covers. He pulls last night’s jeans from the floor and shimmies into them, not really caring what Sherlock might see in the process. He grabs a t-shirt from a pile a few feet from the bed as he stalks toward the door. 

Sherlock flattens himself against the doorframe. The smoke is practically rolling from John’s ears and even Sherlock is smart enough to avoid bumping against John at the moment. He follows John down the stairs and into the sitting room, where John promptly closes the door behind him. 

John turns on him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“You left your door open.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. For a moment, the brewing argument is comforting. They are in each other’s space, aware of each other, in a way they haven’t been in months. John’s barely seen Sherlock in weeks; just the snap of the closing of his bedroom door or the tail end of his coat as he runs down the stairs. The familiar tug of old times tastes bitter in his mouth. 

“Even if I did leave my door open, which I don’t believe I did by the way, you don’t just get to come in. Especially when you know I have a guest.” Sherlock stares at him wide-eyed and innocent. John jabs a finger into his gaze. “And don’t play dumb. Even if you weren’t here when we got in last night, I know you could have figured it out by the way I hung my coat or something.” 

The innocent act drops and Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “It was more easily deducible from the naked man in your bed.” 

Where Sherlock’s voice is dripping acid, John’s is a cannonball loosed on it’s target. “Yes Sherlock! Yes, there is a naked man in my bed. His name is Martin Crieff and I’m quite fucking fond of him.” John pauses, pulling in a ragged breath. “It was never you, so leave off!” 

Sherlock steps back. Stunned into silence, he retreats to the window. He turns his back on John and slumps his shoulders. John holds his ground, with hands clenched into fists at his sides. He’s filled with sorrow, not sorry he’s said these things but sorry they are true at all. Everything he’s said is true and has been true for months. He keeps his eyes on the defeated line of Sherlock’s back as the moments tick between them. 

“You know why it can’t... why it couldn’t have been me?” Sherlock’s voice is quiet and he’s still facing the window when he speaks. 

“Yeah, I know.” John’s hands unclench and the dull sorrow settles behind his breastbone once again instead of threatening to bubble through his throat and overflow harsh words through his mouth. 

“We were almost there though, weren’t we John? If we’d had a little more time or maybe an external push, we would have gotten there.” 

The weight of what might have been, of unspoken promises, settles so heavily over John that he cannot reply. No response could ever be enough. The silence that fills Baker Street is confirmation enough for both of them.

That silence is as close to companionable as the two have shared in a very long time. It’s broken by the sound of Mrs. Hudson climbing the stairs. She knocks lightly on the kitchen door before pushing it open and stepping inside with a full tea tray, complete with warm toast and jam. “I thought I heard you up and about,” she calls from the kitchen as she sets down her ready made breakfast. 

Sherlock doesn’t move away from the window, doesn’t turn around, when Mrs. Hudson enters the sitting room. She looks from John’s tense form to where Sherlock stands in front of the windows then back again. “Is Martin still in bed?” 

John keeps his eyes on Sherlock’s back for a second too long, willing him to turn around, to engage Mrs. Hudson and at least give their lives some sense of normalcy. When Sherlock stays stock still, John scrubs a hand across his face and comes back with a smile for Mrs. Hudson. 

“Yeah, he’s still sleeping.”

“Have a late night?” Mrs. Hudson’s question is intentionally loaded. John colors a bit across his cheeks despite having heard it all before. 

“Not too late. He’s got a flight today.” 

Mrs. Hudson nods and shuffles back toward the kitchen. “He told me yesterday so I thought I’d bring breakfast up for you boys early. I wouldn’t want him to skip it.” 

John crosses to her, forgetting about Sherlock’s shadow in the sitting room, and kisses the top of her head. “You are a treasure, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Well so is your young man up there. Best not to forget it.” 

“I don’t plan to.” 

Sherlock is gone from his perch by the window long before Mrs. Hudson bustles back to her own flat and Martin appears, sleepy and sated, for breakfast. 

_Day 297_

“Carolyn, I have a favor to ask... No. Carolyn, I think that, in light of the frankly appalling employee compensation package at MJN- No! That’s not right either.” Martin takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders before starting again. “Carolyn, I would very much like if- Well, things with John are getting quite serious and-” Martin stops with a whimper and lets his head fall against the desk in the empty portacabin. “This is a stupid idea.”

It’s that exact moment that Carolyn and Arthur come through the door. “I’m sure it’s a monumentally stupid idea but why don’t you entertain us with it anyway, hm?” 

Martin groans but leaves his forehead rooted to the desk. 

“Does it involve Mentos and Diet Coke, because that is not a stupid idea at all.” Arthur chimes in. 

“What?” Martin jerks his head up from the desk. “No. No it does not involve Mentos and Diet Coke.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, in an expression much more like John than himself. “It’s John and my anniversary coming up. Sort of. It’s been six months so it’s kind of an anniversary. I wanted to ask if he could come along on our overnight cargo flight to Barcelona in two weeks as a surprise anniversary gift.” 

“Wow, Skip! That’s a great idea.” Arthur’s typical enthusiasm does little to bolster Martin’s spirits in the face of Carolyn’s stony expression. 

“Well, I guess riding along on an empty cargo flight and back in just over 24 hours might seem like a good idea to some.” Carolyn gives a dismissive wave of her hand before turning to leave the portacabin. “Fine, fine. Bring him along.” 

Martin is dumbfounded. More at his own luck turning so good than at Carolyn giving in so quickly. He’d barely stammered out the question and she’d invited John along. He’s pulling out his phone with jittery fingers when Arthur pipes up again.

“It will be fun to have Dr. Watson along. I can share with Douglas so you two don’t have to bunk with one of us!” For once, Martin is incredibly grateful for Arthur’s foresight. 

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Can you clear your schedule for Tuesday and Wednesday, the 8th and 9th? I have a surprise for you._

_Day 310_

The landing into Barcelona had been a bit bumpy, but John was wise enough not to say anything. The wisdom of the whole crew continues when Douglas specifically asks for a room as far from Martin and John’s as possible. Martin had blushed and tried to stammer out that that wasn’t really necessary before John stopped him with a hand on his hip. 

Now, laying flat on his back, naked, and covered in sweat, Martin is very glad that John let Douglas take a room at the opposite end of their shabby hotel. He giggles as John collapses next to him. 

“Who’d have thought that trucking a rich retiree’s belongings to Spain would turn out so well for me?” 

“Well, I had to earn my passage,” John quips against Martin’s neck. 

Martin shifts under him, beginning to feel sore and sticky. “Oh, you’ve earned it.” 

“That was only for the ride here. What about my return trip?” John works his lips over Martin’s jaw and across to his ear before Martin turns his head to kiss John properly. 

“I think we can come up with something.” 

The room is warm and John is nearly too hot against him, but there’s a breeze from the opened windows that smells like the sea and Martin is ridiculously happy. 

***************  
They walk north when hunger pushes them from the bed. Not as far north as some of the more impressive parks and tourist sites, but they still see some lovely street art and architecture before settling into a table outside a busy cafe. The table is so tiny that their knees knock together while the waiter pours their wine. 

“This is nice. Really nice.” John smiles and leans back so his legs push more firmly against Martin’s under the table. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had an anniversary to celebrate with someone.” 

Martin ducks his head and looks away from John’s lazy smile. “It’s just six months, and not even for a couple days yet, so I’m not sure it even counts as an anniversary but I wanted to do something nice with you, for you really, after you’d been so, so wonderful when my Mum was sick and-” Martin cuts himself off with a sharp breath and looks back to John. John is still smiling but this time over the rim of his wine glass. Martin smiles back, nerves fading to a dull roar inside his stomach. “But, yes, I wanted to say thank you for the last six months. Even if it’s not a proper anniversary.”

“It’s a proper anniversary if we want it to be a proper anniversary.” John sets his glass against the faded table cloth and lays his arm across the table. It’s not a stretch to brush his fingertips across Martin’s knuckles. “And I very much want it to be a proper anniversary.”

“Yeah, me too.” Martin extends his fingers to rub gently against John’s. His throat feels hot and tight and he refuses to cry in the bloody street in Barcelona just because John wants him, really wants him and this relationship is working out better than he could have ever hoped. 

John pulls back when the waiter arrives with plates of steamed mussels, olives, eggplant, and rice. They eat in companionable silence, still bumping and rubbing their knees together as their second bottle of wine appears. 

That second bottle disappears more quickly than the first and they find themselves a little tipsy over their shared _la crema catalana_ dessert. Martin stops a glass before John to make sure he’ll be well within regulations early tomorrow afternoon when they depart Barcelona. Even with less wine in his system, he’s a bit more giggly than John is.

The walk back to their hotel is slow. They bump shoulders and laugh together in the warm Mediterranean night. It’s a quiet Tuesday evening on the streets and they only pass a few other people as they amble back to their bed. The cozy, safe feeling of the crooked streets is shattered when a man steps from a darkened alleyway and demands their wallets in harshly accented English. 

Martin sees the edge of a blade glint in the street light. The blood rushes from his face and he immediately fumbles for his wallet. A firm grip on his forearm stops him. He turns to John and finds that the other man has gone tense and very still, but with a small smile spread across his lips. 

“Come on now mate. You don’t want to do this.” John’s voice is calm; Martin imagines it’s the voice he uses when giving jabs to scared children. 

The man in front of them doesn’t respond. He just pushes the blade forward, making a shallow thrust toward John. Martin’s still got his hand against the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. 

“Oh, alright then.” John’s hand gives his arm a brief squeeze before falling away. Instead of reaching back for his own wallet, John takes a quick step forward and lashes out with his left heel at almost the same moment. His boot cracks against the mugger’s shin and the man stumbles. 

As the man is bent forward, John grabs his wrist and twists. The knife clatters to the ground as the mugger lets out a howl of pain. John spins so that his back is to the mugger and the man’s arm is pinned under his right elbow. He jerks backward so that his shoulder catches the man just under the chin as he’s trying to straighten up. John releases the mugger’s arm as his backward momentum pulls him down and he crumbles in a ball on the pavement. 

John pockets the knife and holds out his hand to Martin. “Come on, let’s get back to the hotel.” 

Martin finally drops his hand away from his wallet and steps toward John. He doesn’t take John’s hand. Martin has seen his share of schoolboy fights, he’s been in his share of schoolboy fights actually, but those were not moves you learned in a quick tussle. The walk back to the hotel is silent and their shoulders don’t brush or bump together again. 

_Day 311_

Martin is awake, showered, and ironing his uniform shirt when John stirs. He’d slept poorly after they’d returned to the hotel, tossing and turning and imagining the calm look on John’s face as he attacked a man. Granted, a man that was threatening them with a weapon, but he was still another human being. 

John sits up in the bed, sheets tangled in his lap and scarred shoulder bare to the sunlight, and watches Martin watching him. “You look concerned.” 

Martin takes a deep, steadying breath. “Was that left over from the army or from when you played at being a copper?” 

“Learned in the army, put it to good use when I was mucking about with the Yard. The shoulder throw is more of a rugby move though.” John smiles but Martin remains stock still behind the hotel ironing board. “He’ll feel it today, but I didn’t break anything. I didn’t do any lasting damage.”

“Or we could have just given him our wallets.” 

“Neither of us can afford to do that and you know it.” 

Martin goes back to his ironing, resolutely trying to ignore John but hyper aware of his movements all the same. He stiffens as John pads softly behind him but doesn’t turn to meet the other man’s eyes. 

“I know how to handle myself, but I’m not a violent person. I don’t fight unless I have to.” John wraps his arms around Martin’s waist and rests his chin against Martin’s shoulder. “I’d never hurt you.” 

“I know. I do know that.” Martin’s stomach suddenly turns sour realizing John thought Martin was afraid of him. “I didn’t think you’d really hurt me. It’s just...unsettling to see.”

John ducks his head to press his lips against Martin’s shoulder blade before pulling back. “I’m going to shower and get ready to head back to the airfield. You’ll grab a late breakfast with me, yeah?” 

Martin nods, head down, and keeps ironing the already wrinkle free lines of his shirt. 

***************  
The landing back into Fitton goes a lot more smoothly than the one in Barcelona, but Martin nervous stomach doesn’t seem to notice the difference. He drives John to the train station to send him back to London for an early shift at the surgery tomorrow. He’s dreading the awkward goodbye before they even arrive at the platform. 

Before Martin can stammer out what he thinks might be a combination between an apology, another statement of concern, and a goodbye, John presses a torn piece of notebook paper into his hand. 

“It’s the address to the blog I used to write. It might help explain things... or why I am the way I am. I don’t really know if it will help but I’d like you to read it.” 

Martin crushes the paper in his hand and dumbly nods his head, up and down, up and down, until John kisses him and boards his train. 

That night Martin pulls up John’s blog on a laptop borrowed from one of the students who is out for the night. He scrolls to the bottom and reads every entry, every comment until the living record of John’s former life comes to an abrupt halt. Then he scrolls back to the bottom and reads it again. 

_Day 312_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_I’m sorry._

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Happy anniversary then?_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Happy anniversary._

_Day 315_

“You showed him the blog.” 

John lets the Sunday Times fold away from his face. He’s stopped being surprised at Sherlock’s random entrances and exits into his daily life. He barely sees the man at all anymore. Which is good. Really, it’s good. John’s heart aches at the gap between himself and the man who was his best friend, will always be his best friend in a way, but there’s no going back. 

“I gave him the address, yes.” John folds the paper neatly on 221b’s spotless table top. 

Sherlock sits on the edge of the kitchen chair across from John and his breakfast. He’s wrapped in his blue silk dressing gown, shoulders hunched inward, and looking more pale and... well, _diminished_ than John’s ever seen him. 

“You’re letting him in more and more.” The phrase should have been said with Sherlock’s patented pout and a healthy dash of egoism. Instead, it comes out as a melancholy whisper. 

“I have to, Sherlock.” John swallows heavily as the empty space behind his breastbone, where Sherlock and the embers of their friendship always sits, opens up to swallow the whole of his chest. “No, more than that. I want to. I care about Martin. And...” John takes a deep breath to steady himself before voicing the truth he knows has been taking shape in his mind. “And, I’m ready for this. I want to move on.” 

“Move on from me? From this?” Sherlock waves his hands around his head as he jumps from his seat. John hears the slam of Sherlock’s knees as they collide with the underside of the table. He whirls toward the sitting room, only to stop abruptly in the doorway. “We were so good, John. We burned so brightly.” 

John’s lips stretch into a weak smile. “Yeah, we were. They were great times.”

“The best.”

“Absolutely.” 

Sherlock looks back from the doorway. “The more you let him in, the more you push me out, you know.” 

Now John rises, but doesn’t move closer to Sherlock. “No. It doesn’t have to be that way Sherlock. People can be friends with more than one person at a time. I can-”.

“You can love more than one person at a time? I don’t think so John. Not like this.” Sherlock disappears from the doorway and John hears the click of his bedroom door before he can work up a proper response. The violin starts an angry, frustrated melody and John leaves for the surgery much earlier than necessary. The music still takes root in his ears but fails to fill that cavernous hole in his chest. He can hear it echoing in his head when he trudges home that evening, but the flat is dark and Sherlock is silent. 

_Day 331_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_I’m so sorry. I have to cancel. Carolyn’s booked a trip to China that we desperately need._

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_That we desperately need or that Carolyn desperately needs?_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_That MJN desperately needs._

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Your loyalty is admirable._

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_When can I see you again?_

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_Can I come to London next weekend?_

_From: Dr. John Watson_   
_Of course. Come whenever you can._

_From: Martin Crieff_   
_I am sorry about this. I miss you._

_Day 341_

John swirls the red wine in his glass. He’s not really concerned with aerating the 7 quid bottle of Merlot but the motion gives him something to do, gives his eyes something to focus on, while the heavy, thick silence stretches on. 

“Well,” Martin licks his lips nervously, never one to let a silence drag on, “do you think I should apply?” 

John swirls the glass one more time before responding. “You’d have to move to Switzerland?”

“To Zurich. If I got the job, which I probably won’t, but I want to at least try.” 

“What would happen to MJN?” It’s the question John can most easily ask right now. It’s the acceptable echo of the _What would happen to us?_ that’s roiling in his gut. 

Martin takes a slow drink of his wine. John can feel Martin’s calves stretch and bunch where they lie across his lap. “They’d have to fold. If I left, there would be no more MJN Air.” 

John’s eyebrows shoot up. Maybe this isn’t a safer conversation than the one he really wants to have with Martin. “You’d do that to them?”

“I don’t want to. I really don’t, but even Carolyn is encouraging me to apply. Douglas as well.” Martin looks pained and John is sorry he pressed the issue. “If I could get paid and keep flying GERTI, I would. But I don’t think that’s going to be possible.” 

Martin goes silent and John stares into his wine glass once again. He sees the days and months of loneliness and emptiness stretching out before him if Martin moves to Zurich. The one bright spot, the person who’s brought him back around to enjoying life again, will be gone. He wants to stamp his feet and cry that it’s not fair. He’s found something good and he’s going to lose it and there’s nothing he can do about it. Again. 

John smiles as best he can. “I think you should apply.” 

When he takes Martin to bed that night, John does his best to show him how much he’ll miss him.


	5. Chapter 4

_Day 343_

Martin smells bacon before he opens his eyes. So when he does finally pull himself out of sleep, he’s not surprised to find John missing from the bed. The first few times Martin stayed over at 221b, he was disappointed that John was already awake and active in the mornings. Now, he’s happy to wake up in John’s bed without him because he knows that John is never far away and there’s no awkwardness in Martin having a bit of a lie-in. 

He stumbles down to the kitchen with a yawn and long stretch. He doesn’t miss how John’s eyes skim over the slice of his stomach exposed by his t-shirt riding up. John’s constant appreciation, and damn near insatiability, never fail to warm Martin from the inside out or stain his cheeks a rosy pink. 

He drapes himself across John’s back. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Same thing as yesterday: bacon, eggs, toast.” John smiles and nudges Martin’s chin with his shoulder. “Get the juice from the fridge.” 

Martin puts the juice on the already laid out table. John adds the bacon, then the eggs, and eventually the toast. Martin waits and watches as John puts the finishing touches on the spread before him. 

John kisses the top of Martin’s head before taking his own seat. “Tuck in. I’m not waiting.” 

Breakfast is easy, peaceful, and quiet. 

So, of course, Martin has to ruin it at the first opportunity. 

“About Zurich. I am going to send my CV. I’ve decided. But-” Martin stops at the forced expression on John’s face. The lines around his eyes are tight and the corners of his mouth look uncomfortably tacked in a parody of a smile. “You don’t want me to apply, do you?” 

“No. I didn’t say that.” John rises and takes his plate to the sink. He keeps his back to Martin as he begins washing up. 

Martin can hear the spigot gush water into the basin but he keeps his seat, eyes locked on the tense line of John’s shoulders. “You didn’t say it, but I can tell.” His hopes fall a bit. He wanted John to be happy for him. He’s trying not to get excited, not to be hopeful about his career prospects, but he thought he could at least be honest with John about how much he wants this. 

The water is the only sound between them until John’s voice quietly rises above the splashing. “I’ll just miss you when you go. That’s all.” 

The sadness and absolute desolation in John’s voice stabs directly into Martin’s heart. He’s up and to the sink before he’s decided what he wants to say. Martin knows what he’d like to say, what’s been on the tip of his tongue for ages really, but he’s not sure how to get it out. He stands, a bit awkwardly, next to John, wanting to reach out and hug him, hold him, or just do anything to ease his discomfort. But John is almost always strong and stoic and Martin doesn’t know how to cross that gap. 

The hardened look on John’s face as he deliberately continues to wash an already cleaned plate pushes Martin forward and, finally, one of the things he’s been wanting to say falls from his lips. “You could come with me.”

The plate hits the sink bottom with a stronger thud than strictly necessary. John finally turns to look at Martin and his face is a mesh of confusion, lingering loneliness, and hope. “Come with you? To Switzerland?”

“If I get the job, but I don’t think I will, they may not even see me for an interview, but if I get the job... you move to Zurich with me. We could get a place together, in Zurich. If I get the job.”

John immediately starts laughing. “Christ, are you really asking me to move to Switzerland for a job you don’t even have yet?” 

Martin feels the apples of his cheeks turn red and a smile spread across his face. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.” John’s still chuckling but Martin forces himself to grow serious, which can be feat in the face of John’s mirth. The other thing he’s been wanting to say, the one he feels bubbly up inside him at the oddest of moments and threatens to spill over unceremoniously, is right on the tip of his tongue. He wants to get this absolutely right, he has to get it right for John. “Ahh... I know we haven’t been seeing each other very long but I love you and I want to be with you.” He hazards a quick glance away from John’s shocked face to glance around 221b’s kitchen. “Maybe going to Zurich together could be a fresh start for both of us. A fresh start together.” 

He’s trying to watch John’s face, to gauge his reaction, but John’s fists clench in his t-shirt and then he’s far too close to keep an eye on John’s expression. John pulls their lips together and there’s a clash of teeth before they get the angle just right. Martin’s distantly aware of the water still running in the sink, but he’s more concerned with his hands squeezing John’s waist and the way John presses against him. 

Finally, John rests his forehead against Martin’s. If Martin crosses his eyes, he can see how shiny and slick John’s lips are and that sends a low kick of possession and love and want into his stomach. 

“I love you too.” John’s voice is quiet and reverent as he says it. He pulls back and turns to glance around their breakfast dishes and into the sitting room. “A fresh start. Yeah, we could use that.” 

Martin pulls him by the chin into another kiss, hoping to push away the lingering hints of loneliness and sadness in John’s voice. Martin makes a vow to himself then and there to never let John feel alone and abandoned again. As long as John will have him, Martin will keep him happy. 

_Day 353_

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _They want me for an interview!_

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _That’s fantastic. When?_

_From: Martin Crieff_  
 _They want me to come for a technical interview in London next week._

_From: Dr. John Watson_  
 _I’d say good luck but I know you don’t need it._

_Day 359_

“I think it went well. No. No, I know it went well. There was one question - a word problem about altitude rules flying west to east between CDG and VIE - that was worded a bit strangely but once I figured out what they wanted to know, it was fine.” Martin comes to a dead stop on the busy London sidewalk, pulls at his tie, and forces himself to take a deep breath. “It was fine.” 

John’s breathy chuckle cuts through the background noise of the surgery on the other end of the phone. “I knew you wouldn’t have a problem. How long until they make you a stunning offer of employment, Captain Crieff?” 

Martin lets out a laugh at that and quickly steps to the side to avoid being jostled on the pavement. “I don’t know. They’ll call me for a personal interview if I did well enough on the technical portion. I had to have done well enough, didn’t I? There wasn’t anything I didn’t know. I didn’t even need to guess. I just knew it. So they’ll have to call me, right?” 

“They’ll call you.” He can hear John switching the phone from ear to ear and someone calling for him in the background. “Listen, do you have time for dinner before you head back to Fitton?” 

“Yes, our flight isn’t until midday tomorrow so I can get home a bit late. I wish I could stay.” Martin’s voice turns wistful towards the end and he tugs his tie again.

“I wish you could stay too. But soon, yeah? This job will come through and we’ll stay every night together.” 

“Yeah.” Martin drops his voice to shield himself from passersby. “I love you, John.” The newness of being able to say that to John Watson has not faded. There’s still an electric thrill up Martin’s spine all the way down to his fingertips every time he says it. 

“I love you too.” Martin notices that John doesn’t lower his voice even though there are surely coworkers and patients nearby. His heart beats a little bit faster with that realization. “I’ve got to go but I’ll be done in an hour or so. Meet you at mine?” 

John rings off before Martin can properly reply. He catches his reflection in storefront window as he turns toward Baker St. He looks happy. Martin Crieff actually looks happy. 

_Day 363_

Martin’s in Fitton, it’s Saturday and John’s not needed at the surgery, and the crushing weight of the last year catches up with him earlier than expected. He knew it was coming. He’s not immune to the calendar but the excitement over Martin and the possibility of Zurich have kept him distracted. Now he’s alone and there’s nothing but his thoughts and the passing of time to keep him company. 

He doesn’t shower, he doesn’t get dressed, he stays in bed. He barely cries. He stares at the wall and feels hollow. 

Mrs. Hudson brings him a tea tray but doesn’t turn on the light. He manages to answer Martin’s texts adequately but he doesn’t pick up the phone when it rings. 

_Day 364_

John calls into work sick. He tells them he’s come down with something and will need a few days off. 

_Day 365_

It’s the longest and shortest day of John’s life. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, even bloody fucking Mycroft try to talk to him, but he stays silent. He doesn’t eat. He sleeps fitfully, on and off. 

_Just get through today_ , he thinks. 

_Day 367_

Martin leaves an excited voicemail saying that he’s been called back for an in-person interview in Zurich. 

John pulls himself from bed with a firm _that’s enough now_ in his own mind. The bathroom mirror shows him a haggard face with dark circles smudged under his eyes. He showers and shaves, and only once thinks about what would happen if he pressed the razor too firmly against his skin. 

It will take weeks for the hollowness to recede back to a manageable level, and _Christ, will it always be like this?_ but he’s going to Fitton to see Martin before the big interview in Zurich and this is his life now and he will be happy. 

_Day 379_

“I told them I’d let them know.” 

“You can’t really want to work for people that accused you of cheating, can you?”

“Well, I-” Martin stops himself. After the initial anger and humiliation of being accused of cheating, which is really the last thing Martin would ever do, he wasn’t that bothered by it. He wishes they had asked him rather than just accusing him of cheating, but he can understand how a near perfect (perfect, really) test score could look suspicious. He watches John’s hands, with blunted fingers and carefully trimmed nails, add diced onions and peppers to the chicken simmering on the hob. John looks tired but his smile when Martin had knocked on the door of 221b had been wide and bright. 

This could be his everyday. Everyday he could come home to John or John could come home to him. They could cook together, talk to each other, be silent in the same room, go to bed together every night. Martin could have all this. All he has to do is say yes. 

“I wouldn’t be a captain any more. But I would be getting paid.” 

“What about MJN?” 

Martin scrubs his hands across his face. “I don’t know. Carolyn says they’ll have to fold eventually anyway. If I don’t take the job, it’s just delaying the inevitable.” He still has the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes when John’s fingers come to rest on his hips. 

“Hey. Hey now.” John’s voice is low and soft and just enough to make Martin drop his hands. He rests them on John’s shoulders. “I know you feel guilty, but it’s not your responsibility to keep MJN afloat. Carolyn knew this would happen sooner or later.”

“I know. It’s just...They’ve done so much for me.” 

John’s arms slide around Martin’s waist and pull him close. Martin buries his face in crook of John’s neck and breathes him in. It’s the scent of soap, slightly spicy aftershave, and John himself. This can be Martin’s; it has to be his. 

“You’ll still come with me? If I take the job in Zurich?” It’s muffled and more than slightly pathetic sounding, even to Martin’s own ears. 

John pulls back, lifts Martin’s face with two fingers under his chin, and kisses him. It’s so slow and sweet and tender that Martin’s heart almost breaks under the weight of how lucky he feels.  
“Yeah, of course I’m still going with you. Fresh start, remember?” John kisses him again and this time Martin kisses back, with all the love and gratitude he can muster. 

Martin peppers light kisses across John’s lips before pulling back again. “I’ll call them first thing in the morning.” 

“Do you know when we’ll have to move?” 

“They said I could start in three months.”

“Three months it is.” John’s grin holds no reservations. 

_Day 380_

It’s the middle of the night when John wakes to the creaking of the flat around him. He holds his breath, hoping to hear a door close or a glass clink. He hopes against hope for the violin. Anything to signal that Sherlock’s come home again. 

There’s nothing but the absent minded settling of 221b’s old wood and the snuffling of Martin breathing against his pillow. 

No Sherlock. Just Martin, real and warm and loving, here beside him. And John’s happy with that. He’s actually ridiculously happy with that.


	6. Chapter 5

_Day 439_

John’s last day at the surgery falls on a Friday. The other doctors take him out for a pint to celebrate his move. A pint becomes many more and John finds himself stumbling back to Baker Street well after midnight. Martin’s on one of his last flights for MJN and won’t be back in the country for a few days, so he’s in no rush to get home. They move to Zurich in two weeks, into a bland flat picked for them by Swiss Airways, and Martin’s first flight as a fully salaried first officer is a week after that. 

He’s too distracted by his thoughts and the haze of beer to make a run for it when Mycroft’s car pulls up beside him.

“Jesus, piss off.” John hopes it comes out as clear and strong as he intended. 

Mycroft extends a hand through the open door. “Allow me, John.” 

He doesn’t take the hand but he does crawl in the backseat. At least Mycroft won’t be able to so easily harass him in Zurich. John thinks, anyway. They ride in silence for a few blocks.

“Well? You obviously aren’t just running your own after hours taxi service.” John knows something is coming and he’d rather get it over and done with so he can go to bed. His buzz is already fading into a dull throbbing behind his eyes. 

Mycroft leans forward, elbows braced on knees, and sighs. “I want you to reconsider moving to Switzerland with Martin Crieff.” 

To be honest, John was expecting something like this. Mycroft’s surveillance and interest in his life hasn’t exactly been subtle. “Why would I reconsider moving for even one moment? Can you give me any reason to stay here?” 

Myrcoft sniffs indelicately. “I am not at liberty to say.” 

John’s hackles rise at that. “Then, no. This is not up for discussion.” 

“No, I thought not. But I had to try.” Mycroft leans back and closes his eyes. He leaves his head resting against the seat for the remainder of the short drive to Baker Street. 

When the car comes to a stop in front of 221, John opens the door. “Is that it, then? You’re not going to try to convince me.” 

“No.” Mycroft’s eyes finally open. “You’re not the only one who’s tired, John. Best of luck in your new life. Sincerely.” 

As John crawls into bed, he’s still shocked that he believes Mycroft is both tired and sincere. 

_Day 444_

“I can’t believe you’ve lived here for years and all your stuff fits in seven boxes.” Greg huffs as he stacks the last box. “I thought helping you pack was actually going to be strenuous.” 

“Well, when I moved in it was with just a rucksack. Most of this-” John gestures around the sitting room “-was here when I moved in.” 

“Are you taking anything as a memento?” 

“I thought about taking the skull but I’m not sure how MJN feels about human remains in their cargo hold.” John shrugs off his own joke. “I’ve got some photos, a couple trinkets, but I’m happy to leave it behind. Fresh start and all that.” 

Greg leans against the stack of boxes and smiles sadly. “Well, it’s not a fresh start yet. The Yarders still want to take you out for a drink.” 

That sets John laughing. “God, I feel like all I’ve done is drink and say goodbye. I’m going to Switzerland, not the other side of the world.” 

“Still not getting out of it, mate.” 

“Okay, okay. Martin gets in tomorrow and our last day in London is Monday. Then we go to Fitton. His last flight with MJN is on Tuesday, then we’re off to Zurich on Thursday.” 

“So, would you like to get roaring drunk on Friday or Saturday night?” Greg’s smile has turned back to his normal mischievous tilt. 

John groans and lays his head in his hands. “Saturday. Now get out before I change my mind.” 

He follows Greg to the front door and shakes his hand. “I know it’s been hard, John, but it’s been a really great adventure too.” 

“Yeah, wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” John mostly means it, though he does a good job of pretending. 

***************  
It’s his last night alone in Baker Street. Martin will be here in the morning to spend a few days in London before they pack up John’s belongings and head to Fitton. There, they’ll pack up Martin’s tiny flat and MJN will fly them to Zurich. Swiss Airways offered to move them but Carolyn wouldn’t hear of it. 

He cries a little, against his pillow in the dark. He’s happy with this choice but wishes he had never been in the position to make it. 

He can almost hear the violin that night but he knows the ghost of that sound is all in his head. 

_Day 449_

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t hold it together as well as John had hoped. She’s already crying when she brings up the morning tea tray. 

“I thought you were my landlady, not my housekeeper?” John teases. 

That earns him a watery smile. “In a few hours I won’t be either so hush up and eat your toast.” 

“I’ll miss you, Mrs. Hudson. Really, I will.” She lays her hands on his shoulders and John grabs them like a lifeline. “Take a holiday to Zurich anytime you want. Martin and I would love to have you visit.”

She pats him gently on the shoulders and steals a quick kiss into his hair. “You and your young man get settled first. Plenty of time for visiting later.” 

They load John’s boxes, now increased to eight since receiving going away presents from the Yard and Mrs. Hudson, into Martin’s rickety van. Plus, John decided he would take a few mementos: the deerstalker, some books, a few other trinkets he’s sure Sherlock hated anyway. 

John pulls Martin along for one last walk around Regent’s Park. He wants to keep walking: to walk all the way to St. Bart’s, to St. Paul’s, to the Thames. He wants to see London again and feel her in his lungs. But time’s rushing past them. There’s so much to do and only three days to do it in. 

By mid-afternoon, goodbyes have been said and they’re puttering up the M1 toward Fitton. 

He’s a little disappointed when Mycroft doesn’t show up to try to talk him out of it one last time. 

_Day 450_

Martin keeps anxiously reciting their short to-do list out loud and John is ready to murder him.

“I have to be at the airfield at 1 o’clock, and you’ll finishing packing up the boxes here while I’m gone. Then tomorrow, you’ll meet me at the airfield when we land so we can load the boxes into GERTI, and after that Simon comes to pick up the van keys-”

“And then we relax for the rest of day and on Thursday Douglas and Herc will fly us to Zurich. I know, Martin. I know. It’ll be fine.” 

Martin tugs at his hair. “I’m sorry. I know I’m bloody annoying. It just feels like there’s so much to do, even if there really isn’t.” 

John goes back to stacking Martin’s books in a sturdy box. “I know. We’re really almost there now.”

“I know. I do. It’s just the coasting that has me worried. What if we’re forgetting something?” Martin squeezes close behind John and wraps his arms around John’s waist. He bends so his forehead rests perfectly at the base of John’s neck, just between his shoulder blades. 

John stops packing and presses his palms against the back of Martin’s clenched hands. “If we’re forgetting something, it’s obviously not important enough for us to need in Zurich.” He can feel Martin’s head nod against his back. “Christ, go... I don’t know. Iron your uniform or something. You’re driving me mad.” 

“How did I get so lucky that you put up with me?” Martin presses a kiss to the back of John’s neck before pulling away.

“Well, you are a pilot and the sex is pretty fantastic,” John quips back. John goes back to stacking books. Martin has so many books, almost as many as Sherlock, crammed into his tiny flat. He can hear Martin pulling his uniform from the mostly empty wardrobe and plug in the iron, his hands smell like musty old paper, and it’s the happiest he’s been in ages. 

_Day 451_

Douglas insists on taking John and Martin out for drinks after Simon picks up the van and all their worldly possession are stored in GERTI’s cargo hold. 

Arthur gives Martin a handwritten cookbook and Herc presents him with a much older book on the history of aviation. John increases the number of new bookshelves they’re going to need to pick up from IKEA on his mental list of post-moving needs. Douglas gives Martin a bottle of very expensive whiskey. John is not looking forward to the hangover that’s going to produce in Martin. Carolyn says her gift is flying them to Zurich at all so Martin had better be very appreciative. Martin scoops Carolyn up in a very awkward looking hug after his fourth drink, but it needed to be done. 

Just before 11:00 pm, Douglas pulls John aside. “You should take him home.” 

“I think he’s fine. Happy, and a bit goofy, but not too drunk.”

“No, but if he stops drinking now and gets some sleep, he’ll be within regulations to fly tomorrow. If he’d like to pilot GERTI on his last flight.” 

“I thought you and Herc were going to take her out and back?” 

Douglas smiles a bit sadly. “Well, that’s the plan but can you imagine Martin riding as a passenger the last time he steps on board that plane?” 

The sense of what Martin is giving up, giving up to give them a chance, spoils the end of John’s drink. He plunks the pint glass on the bar. “Ta, Douglas. I’ll take him home and get him to bed.” 

Getting Martin home is easier said than done. He wants to walk, he wants to say long goodbyes to everyone. And Arthur is certainly not helping. 

It takes the better part of an hour to get Martin out of the bar and to walk the half a mile or so back to his flat. John gets him up the stairs, not really caring if the students wake up as Martin plods along and bangs into the walls a bit. After all, the number of times they have come home drunk and loud far outnumbers Martin’s transgressions. 

They curl up on the lumpy sofa bed, it and most of the furniture stays with the flat when they leave tomorrow morning, and Martin wraps himself around John like an octopus. He falls asleep murmuring “I love you” into John’s scarred shoulder. 

_Day 452_

GERTI takes off, with Martin and Douglas at the yoke and the rest of MJN, John, and Herc in the cabin, just after 10:00 am. _Fresh start_ , John thinks as they climb above the clouds over Fitton. 

_From: [Number Blocked]_  
 _The Doctor has left Britain. Unlikely to return. Instructions? -MH_

_Day 454_

_From: [Number Blocked]_  
 _He’s beyond my view now but he was happy. -MH_

_Day 457_

_From: [Number Blocked]_  
 _At least tell me you’re receiving messages. -MH_

_Day 458_

_From: [Number Blocked]_  
 _I am sorry. You left him alone too long. -MH_

_Day 460_

_From: [Number Blocked]_  
 _Instructions? -MH_

_Day 463_

_From: [Number Blocked]_  
 _Return property to landlady. Burn everything. Am not returning. -SH_


End file.
